


Timing, Sherlock

by NovaNara



Series: 31 days of Porn - more like 12 months of porn but one does what one can! ^^''' [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Sexting, a bit - Freeform, and sexting fails
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-11-03 07:14:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10962336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovaNara/pseuds/NovaNara
Summary: John is away on a conference...and Sherlock will make very clear how much he misses him.





	Timing, Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own anything. A.N. I know, I know…I’m way too late to the party, this story is short, and besides, I’m not even following the challenge’s prompt order. I’m awful. But I can never resist a challenge, and I just go with whatever catches my eye when I need to stretch my smutty writing muscles…fingers… the more I write the worse I sound, don’t I? XD Fine, I’ll shut up, just saying this is for Epistolary/Sexting, and hope you enjoy!

Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, had never easily accepted to be curbed into normalcy. Normalcy was overrated, anyway. And being told he was a freak didn’t help him hear out critiques. Then John had wandered into his life, and the sleuth had been lost.

Because John praised him, instead of declaring him a psychotic monster or a soulless thing. And because even when Sherlock blundered, his doctor never hurled abuse at _him_. He just pointed out briefly that ‘it’ ( _not_ the sleuth) was ‘a bit not good’, and offered a word or two about what made it unsuitable.

Honestly, most of the things the detective did weren’t even negative in themselves. The most often issued warning was ‘Timing, Sherlock,” even if John was guilty of the same fault sometimes (mostly giggling at crime scenes).    

And when they’d finally got together, of course Sherlock hadn’t suddenly become proper. That would have bored John to tears, anyway. It just meant that he had a whole new range of things to be inappropriate about.

Like when John was going to a conference at Glasgow. Sherlock hadn’t even asked to accompany him, assuring him he’d find ways to entertain himself for a weekend. After all, there was an experiment he’d meant to try, and it was best done without people in the house to complain of the smell…Mrs. Hudson would go to her sister, and he’d be fine. Of course he’d be fine. He was a grown man, thank you very much.

So, a bit concerned, the doctor had left…but it seemed that the experiment implied more idle time than John’s sanity would appreciate, judging from the texts he received.

 _Missing you. SH_. It would be a downright soppy text, if it didn’t accompany a selfie of his insane lover with his lips stretched around a cucumber.

 _Timing, Sherlock!_ John tried to reply.  He might have actually written tmining, his fingers stumbling over the keys, but his love was bright. He’d understand. There were children in the carriage with him, for God’s sake! He couldn’t indulge now.

Judging from the sulky silence which followed (not even a ‘dull,’ really?), Sherlock was very disappointed.

The subsequent embarrassment John fully deserved, because he forgot to turn off his phone’s ringtone and text tone despite the conference having started. (Yep, he didn’t leave the night before like most of his colleagues, because he wanted to milk every possible second with his boyfriend. Sue him.)

 During the pause, he’ll mention the sleuth’s tendency to encounter emergencies of the murderous kind as a reason not to turn the phone off entirely, but still, his text tone was loud in the quiet – except for the droning of a famous specialist – hall. Then and later, he got dark glares, putting in question everything, from his professionalism to his legitimate ancestry.

And if that wasn’t awkward enough, checking the message – might as well, since the damage was done – to find two images of almost impalpable, lacy lingerie with a, _Which one? SH_ request made sure all his blood went to his face before speedily rerouting to his groin, leaving his brain entirely empty.

He angrily punched, _Neither…who’d you wear them for, uh? Do I need to be jealous?_

 _Of course they are for you, idiot. There’s a thing called Skype, you know. SH_ was the reply he got.

 _Well, not now. I’m actually learning!_ The doctor texted back, ignoring other people’s stares.

He received three emoji. Sherlock never used them, unless he was trying to be cutesy and win John over. And damn it, it worked every time. The tiny penguin, bee and crescent moon said it all. _You love me, even when I’m an awkward idiot, like when I say pengling and pengwing, my honey. See you tonight._

John sent a smiling moon back, unable to stop from smiling himself, and – very blatantly – turned the tone off and put the offending phone away. Thank God that the lecturer was showing images of a particularly nasty cancer tissue, so any remaining arousal waned quickly.

With how the day had gone – and how his boyfriends’ antics had ensured he wouldn’t have many people eager to become friends with him – John couldn’t be blamed if he excused himself early from the seemingly eternal dinner, holing up in his room.

Deciding his boyfriend deserved to be annoyed too, he sent an image he found on the internet, of a virtual dictionary whose cover proclaimed “Touch Dic”.

 _Can’t wait, but don’t I deserve a better pic as inspiration?_ Sherlock texted back.

 _You’ll have to earn it, love. Obeying would be a good start. Describing yourself another_. John typed quickly.

He received an audio file – a moan that put the Woman’s ringtone to shame – and a photo. He ignored it, exerting more strength of will than he thought he had _. I expect you touched, but I said describing, not showing – you’re on the wrong path, mister,_ the blogger retorted. 

 _Are you going to punish me, captain? SH_ his lover taunted.

 _When I get back._ John promised. He wasn’t going to run back home to put his lover in his place, no matter how tempting Sherlock made it. there was another full day of conference, and he’d be attending, thank you very much.

 _I’m naked. In your old room. It’s nostalgic. SH_ came the unexpected confession.

 _No fancy lingerie?_ The doctor asked, teasing himself slowly. The confession that Sherlock would sneak in his own room – very possibly to wank – when he was out was enough to make him groan loudly.

 _You wouldn’t pick._ _SH_ the sleuth texted, and John could feel the pout through all the miles dividing them. 

Well, what was true was true _. Lighten up. One finger on your cock, the other hand to twist your nipples._ John ordered.

_Ples. SH._

Already at the typo stage? Someone was indeed wired. Oh well. That meant that he’d just earned his ‘inspiration’. Not a crass one, though. He sent a selfie of his mangled shoulder. His lover was slightly obsessed with it – it reminded him of John’s soldier past, and that inflamed Sherlock like nothing else. After a number of embarrassed or disgusted girlfriends, the change was a true delight.

_I SH_

If the signature wasn’t added automatically, John was sure there wouldn’t be one. It was an accidental message, desperate, and the former captain didn’t want things to end so quickly.

 _Wait. Tell me what to do_ , he replied. Forcing his lover to think would hopefully bring him back from the brink. (Who said that only Sherlock could be evil?)

The sleuth called. He actually called, giving up on typing…all his fingers otherwise busy, he supposed. He accepted the call, equal parts smug and aroused. “So?” His voice was rough with desire.

For a moment, there was only a wheezy panting on the line. “Jaaawwn!” The detective invoked then, in a drawling  groan.

“Yes, love,” he replied, eliciting a whimper on the line as he knew he would. Sherlock would probably – tragically – never get completely used to that particular endearment.

“Touch yourself, too,” his lover ordered.

“Oh, I am,” John assured. Of course he was. He’d been since the start.

“For real,” the detective growled, sounding more than ever like a jaguar on the prowl, “not lazy; not teasing. And cup your bollocks, play with them. I need you desperate.”

Of course the consulting detective could know what he was doing, even without videocalling. He read the rhythm of John’s strokes in his breath, or something like that. The blogger followed his instructions to the letter, his own moans echoing his lover’s on the line.

“Aaand…stop,” Sherlock ordered, when John was on the brink himself.

“You’re evil,” the blogger groaned, obeying.

“Next time, together,” the sleuth promised, voice like melted honey dripping on John’s body.

“Yes,” John breathed. 

They both went nonverbal, only groans and mewls shared between them, until Sherlock screamed his lover’s name in pleasure, making him too reach his own peak. 

“Love you,” the doctor murmured softly afterwards.

“See you tomorrow?” the detective mumbled back sleepily.

“Good try, but you know perfectly that this conference lasts another two days, love. I miss you too, you know,” John chuckled warmly.

“Worth a try,” the sleuth quipped back., a pout in his voice

“Text to you tomorrow, love. Sweet dreams,” the other replied.

“I’ll dream of you,” Sherlock assured.     

 

   

 

 

 

 

 

    

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Bonus: A friend sent me a post with ‘sexting fails’ including, I am sure, the Lady Smallwood (whatever her name is)/Mycroft thread. I’m just adding the proper names. 
> 
> Mycroft: Hello
> 
> Smallwood: Tell me something that will make me wet. xxx
> 
> Mycroft: Go outside. It’s raining.
> 
> Smallwood: Try again. xxx
> 
> Mycroft: Don’t use an umbrella.


End file.
